


Summer Days

by TessAlyn



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Krennic is having a midlife crisis, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, but not that slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessAlyn/pseuds/TessAlyn
Summary: Director Krennic is working from home when Mytus Adema arrives. He’s the director’s new chief of security— and a major distraction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all JessKo’s fault... if they hadn’t pointed out the existence of cute boy Lieutenant Adema this never would have happened.

It’s hot on Spira for this time of year. Orson doesn’t mind— while others grow sleepy and stupefied in the heat, he grows more alert. It’s always been that way. Galen used to joke that Orson must be part reptile, always seeking sun and warm surfaces to lie on. Galen prefers the cold—  _ preferred _ the cold, Orson corrects himself with a twinge of irritation. He needs to stop thinking of Galen in the present tense. The man doesn’t even  _ look  _ at him anymore, much less speak or joke or laugh. The last time Orson visited Galen on Eadu, he’d been shocked at how hollow-eyed and shriveled he’d become in just a few short months. It broke Orson’s heart to see such a brilliant man allowing himself to waste away, living as though he were already dead, but that was Galen’s choice. If he wanted to torture himself by dwelling on the past, so be it. Orson has more important things to worry about than his sad-sack excuse for a colleague.

_ Change is the only constant, _ Orson reminds himself as he leans over his datapad.  _ If we want to survive, we must adapt.  _ He adjusts the calculation slightly, running the simulation over and over again, each time changing variables and taking note of the results. Peace steals over him, the noise and clutter of the outside world fading away as he sinks deeper into the realm of numbers and equations, variables and formulas. Rarely does he get the chance to be creative, to design something just for  _ himself _ — not Tarkin, not the Emperor, and certainly not Lord Vader. 

The shrill ring of the doorbell shatters his concentration. Orson groans and slams his datapad on the desk. How many times must he be interrupted today? First the landscaper, then that insipid maintenance droid, then Tarkin demanding yet another update on the Stardust project. This is supposed to be his  _ vacation,  _ for frack’s sake. He deserves a little time to himself.

He crosses the floor of his office and slaps the comm button that connects to the front gate. “Who is it?” he snaps.

“Lieutenant Mytus Adema,” comes the response. It’s a male voice, young and overeager. “I’m here to see Director Orson Krennic.”

“Speaking,” Orson barks. “What do you want?”

“I’m your new chief of security, sir.”

“Ah.” Krennic’s annoyance recedes. “Splendid. I’ll be right down.” He clicks off without waiting for a response and punches in the access code.

The lieutenant is waiting in the foyer when he comes downstairs. He’s standing with his back to Orson, hands in his pockets, apparently not concerned about following proper decorum in the presence of someone who far outranks him. He’s about Orson’s height but stockier, with broad shoulders and a short neck. One of those brutish, thick-headed types no doubt, the kind that used to torment him in grade school.

Orson stops on the last step. “Lieutenant,” he says, keeping his tone brusque and businesslike. Hopefully this won’t take more than a few minutes.

Adema turns around. His face is nothing remarkable— plain and square, with hazel eyes and a fringe of reddish brown hair poking out from underneath his cap. But when he sees Orson, his entire face lights up, and suddenly he’s not so ordinary. 

“Director,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets and striding forward. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.” 

Orson is hardly ever at a loss for words, but this time they fail him. Tales of the tyrannical perfectionist Director Krennic are the stuff of Imperial legend, but this fellow doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated. He actually reaches out for a  _ handshake _ , as if they’re colleagues instead of superior and subordinate. Orson wants to remind him of his place, but he’s also curious to know what the lieutenant’s hand feels like. It's difficult to decide which is more important. 

“Interesting choice of words,” he says at last, keeping his arms at his sides. “People aren’t usually glad when they meet me.”

Adema doesn’t seem annoyed by his refusal to shake hands. He lowers his arm and continues to smile pleasantly, as though he expected such a reaction.

“I find that hard to believe, Director,” he says. “I’d think most people would be excited to meet the man who designed the biggest space station ever built.”

Orson lets out a barking laugh, half-surprised, half-amused. “In case you haven’t heard, lieutenant, I dislike most people. Which makes them dislike me.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Adema says with another grin. “It’s pretty hard to dislike me.”

His audacity sets Orson’s teeth on edge. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” he replies, then steps off the stairs and starts walking across the foyer. “I’ll give you a brief tour. Then I’m going back to work.”

“Sounds good to me,” the lieutenant says cheerfully, and follows him into the sitting room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tour continues, with unexpected levels of sass.

Whether he’s giving a tour of the laboratory on Eadu or briefing a class of cadets, Orson always expects his audience to remain silent and reserve questions until the end. It’s proper protocol. 

Adema does not do this. He constantly interrupts and stops to look at things that are irrelevant to their conversation.

“Wow,” he exclaims, crouching down in front of an antique quetarra, which is resting on its stand beside the bay window. “Is this yours?”

“Of course it’s mine,” Orson says, stopping yet again. “It wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

Adema runs his hand slowly over the instrument’s dusty curves. “Do you ever play it?”

“It’s an antique,” Orson says irritably. “It’s not supposed to be played.”

“What’s the point of having it, then?”

The sheer  _ impudence  _ of this man takes Orson’s breath away. “You’re supposed to be evaluating the security of this room, lieutenant. Not admiring the decor.”

Adema straightens up, a smile quirking his mouth. “Well, let’s see,” he says, taking a step back and gazing around the room. “Window panes need resealing, that’s certain. Bolts need to be replaced. Trim probably does, too. That tree outside should come down. Oh, and all the security cams in here are fake.”

“Fake?” Orson echoes in disbelief. “Ridiculous. I would have noticed.” Truth be told, he’s never paid much attention to the cameras— they’re simply there, like everything else in this room. Irrelevant objects, not worth a second glance. 

“Look.” The lieutenant walks up to the camera in the far corner, reaches up, and taps his fingernail against the lens. The sound is not the sharp clink of glass, but the dull thud of something far more solid.

“Plastoid,” Adema says. “Any decent thief can tell the difference. When was this system installed, do you know?”

“About six months ago, I think.”

“Who installed it?”

“I don’t remember,” Orson says impatiently. “Ask the maintenance droid. He signs off on all work orders.”

Adema raises his eyebrows. “You let a droid handle all your business contracts?”

Orson draws himself up. “I’m a very busy man, lieutenant. I don’t have time to bandy about with trivial nonsense.”

“I’d hardly call your personal safety and security trivial, Director,” Adema says, looking suddenly stern. “From now on, all work orders go through me first. Got it?”

Anger flashes through Orson and he opens his mouth to retort, then closes it again. When it comes to security matters, Adema is technically within his rights to give orders, even to those above him. And much as Orson hates to admit it, the quiet authority in the young man’s voice sends an unexpected thrill through him.

“How old are you?” he inquires suddenly.

“Twenty-six, sir,” Adema replies. “How old are you?”

Orson lets out a barking laugh, more to cover his surprise than anything. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, lieutenant.”

“Maybe you need a security chief with some nerve. The last three quit within the first two months.”

“They all deserved it,” Orson says shortly. “The first one was incompetent, the second stole things, and the third was constantly whistling while I was trying to work.” He eyes Adema suspiciously. “You don’t whistle, do you?”

“No, sir. Never learned how. I also don’t steal things, in case you’re wondering.”

“Is that why you were tapped for this post?”

“That’s part of it.” Adema’s features relax into a grin. “My CO also said I don’t flinch when people yell at me. So I’d probably do well with you.”

“I see,” Orson says, smirking. Finally, some acknowledgement of his power. “In that case, I’ll just have to find other ways to make you flinch, lieutenant.”

He expects Adema to blush, to stammer, to look down at the ground in embarrassment or ask him what the hell he means by that. Or maybe flirt back. Instead, the young man just rolls his eyes.

“You have time to flirt with your subordinates, but you don’t have time to sign a simple work order?” He sighs, shaking his head. “You need to get your priorities straight, Director. What’s next? Kitchen?”

Without waiting for an answer, he goes into the next room, leaving Orson sputtering silently, like a fish thrown up on shore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all in the details.

“That’s it?” Adema’s tone is incredulous. “This big, beautiful kitchen and that’s all you’ve got? What do you  _ eat  _ all day?” He takes a half-empty jar of olives off the refrigerator shelf and turns it over, checking the expiration date. 

The constant criticisms are starting to wear on Orson, and he can’t seem to muster the energy to issue yet another reprimand. None of his usual techniques for shutting people up— rudeness, flirtation, charm, hostility— seem to be working. Nearly thirty minutes have passed and they’re not even through the first floor of the house. He’s not going to get much else done today, that’s for sure.

“The monthly shipment arrives soon,” he says. “We’ll have a fresh supply of food then.”

Adema unscrews the jar lid and sniffs the contents, then makes a face and puts it back. “Where is the food shipped from?”

“What difference does that make?”

“If I know which companies have access to your property, it’s much easier to identify potential points of entry for hostiles.”

“Do you really think someone’s going to kill me with a crate of poisoned apples?” Orson snorts. “If I’m going to be murdered, my enemies will make sure it’s far more spectacular. What?” he adds, seeing the skeptical look on Adema’s face. “You don’t believe me?”

Adema raises his eyebrows, and there’s a short pause as they stare at one another. Orson suddenly gets the sense that he’s being evaluated. For what, he doesn’t know.

“I was raised on Jerijador,” Adema says at last. “Jungle planet in the Outer Rim, very sparsely populated. My family owns a homestead there, and if I learned one thing growing up, it’s that one little detail can mean the difference between life and death. You get bit by a snake but didn’t bring antivenom? You’re going to die before you can make it back home. Didn’t fix that hole in your levee? Now your fields are flooded and your crops are ruined. Forgot to lock the gate last night? Congratulations, a wildcat got in and killed all your calves.” He pauses for breath, then continues. “Food shipments or fake security cameras might seem insignificant to you, Director, but they’re very significant to me. Details are important. They help me keep you safe.”

Orson’s only been speechless a few times in his life, and this is one of them. Adema speaks with the conviction and wisdom of a much older man, someone who has lived a lifetime in just a few years. His voice is firm but kind— earnest, even. It’s a tone Orson associates with a concerned parent. It occurs to him that he should feel insulted, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know  _ what  _ to feel.

“Well,” he says, rather lamely. “At least you’re not boring.”

A flicker of amusement passes over the lieutenant’s face. “Careful, sir,” he says. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Orson snorts again. “Don’t read too much into it.” He turns away and pulls open the door leading to the back garden. “Since you’re such an outdoorsman, let’s see what you make of the grounds.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension develops during the tour-- in more ways than one.

The sun beats down on their heads as they walk across the patio. Adema must be quite uncomfortable wearing a heavy wool uniform in this heat, but he doesn’t seem bothered. As the bright light hits his face, a dusting of brown freckles becomes visible across his nose and cheeks. An image of him stripped to the waist, firm muscles shining with sweat, flashes across Orson’s brain, but he pushes it away.

“That path goes down to the beach,” he explains, pointing straight ahead. “And there’s a service road that connects with it, about half a kilometer down, that leads to the dock.”

“Is that the only landing point on the island?” Adema asks, squinting into the bright sun.

“There are a few isolated beaches and coves,” Orson replies. “But the sensor grid detects all incoming ships, both air and seacraft. If someone tried to breach the perimeter, the guards would know immediately.”

“Right.” The young man’s eyes are sweeping back and forth, taking in the surroundings. Orson wonders what he sees. “How many guards do you have currently?”

“Eight,” Orson says, relieved he finally knows the answer to something. “Two at the landing pad, one at the control tower, two at the service entrance. The others patrol the grounds and surrounding area.”

“That’s a good start,” Adema says. “But we should cover more ground. I’ll put in a request for some sentry droids to help patrol. That’ll free up some guards for home defense.”

“Home defense?” Orson says sharply. “I don’t want a bunch of people traipsing through my house, Adema.”

“They won’t go inside,” he says patiently. “They’ll be posted at the front and back entrances.”

“And you? Where will you be?”

“I’ll be in the house. I plan to set up a command station somewhere downstairs. Probably in that room with the quetarra, since you don’t seem to use it much.”

“But you won’t be _staying_ in the house,” Orson says, unsure if he’s asking a question or just making an observation. “You’ll be living in the barracks with the rest of the guards.”

Adema turns to him, a wry smile on his lips. “No, Director,” he says. “As chief of security, I need to be onsite at all times. I’ll be bunking in one of the guest rooms. You do _have_ guest rooms, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Orson replies, barely aware of what he’s saying. The idea of Adema sleeping in the house, probably just a room or two away from his own... “But I don’t think they’re furnished.”

“No problem. I’ll bring a cot up from the barracks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Orson says. “I’m sure there’s a bed or a sofa or something more comfortable you can use. I’ll have Ronnie search the storage lockers.”

“Who’s Ronnie?”

“The maintenance droid,” Orson explains. “R0-N3 is his designation. I call him Ronnie for short.”

“That’s a good name.” Adema grins. “Okay, show me the rest of the grounds. I’ll check out the shoreline later.”

They resume walking. Adema asks fewer security questions, probably because he’s realized Orson won’t know the answers. Instead, he asks more logistical questions— what’s your daily routine like? How often do you travel? How many visitors come to the house? Do you leave the windows open at night? Do you carry a comlink? Orson responds to each query with the minimal amount of information possible. No need for this man to know more than necessary.

When they reach the south side of the house, Adema stops and points to the large orange tarpaulin stretched out over the lower deck. “Is that a pool?” he asks.

Orson glances over. “Yes,” he says. “It’s not functional at the moment, though. The water pump broke last summer, and since I hardly ever use the thing, it hasn’t been much of a loss.”

“I bet some of the guards would like to use it,” Adema says thoughtfully.

Orson sends him a sharp look. “If they want to swim, they can swim in the ocean. Not in my private pool.”

“You’re not using it,” Adema points out. “Why can’t they?”

Orson feels his annoyance returning. “Because it’s _mine_ , lieutenant. Not theirs.”

For the first time, Adema’s neutral expression drops. His eyes narrow, his jaw tightens, and Orson sees a flash of something in his eyes— something hard, almost angry.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” he says. “Okay, Director. Have it your way.” His features smooth out, and now he’s the polite lieutenant again, calm and collected. “I think we can end the tour here. Like you said, you’re a busy man. I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

And with that, he starts walking back to the house, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder to see if Orson is following him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia, memories, and an unexpected moonlight serenade.

Orson doesn’t sleep well that night. He tries to tell himself it’s because of the heat, but even after getting up, shutting the windows, and cranking up the cooling system, he’s still just as restless. 

Ronnie hadn’t managed to find any beds in storage, but he did find a narrow sofa with a pullout mattress. Adema brought in one of the guards to help move the thing upstairs, and they were quite noisy about it, banging on the walls, laughing and cursing. Then Adema had the  _ gall  _ to barge into Orson’s study and ask where to find sheets. Orson lost his temper at that. “I’m not your bloody housekeeper,” he’d bellowed into the security chief’s face. “Find your own damn sheets.”

Adema hadn’t looked the least bit frightened— in fact, his expression held something closer to scorn. “Okay,” he’d said calmly, holding up his hands. “You don’t have to yell.” Then he’d gone out and shut the door. After a few moments Orson heard him and the other guard snickering, which made him even angrier. Thick-headed little twats. Didn’t they understand the importance of peace and quiet?

He’s heard nothing more from Adema this evening, which bothers Orson more than it should. As annoying as the man is, it’s still enjoyable having someone pay such close attention to his needs. The lieutenant’s words keep coming back to him, echoing in a small corner of his mind.  _ Details are important. They help me keep you safe. _

Galen had always been focused on details. Those dark, keenly observant eyes noticed everything— well, everything related to work, anyway. Galen had never been good at reading people. Orson spent the better part of their first year together flirting, teasing, and dropping hints until he finally lost patience and ambushed Galen on the sofa one evening. Unsurprisingly, Galen was caught completely unawares, but after a moment or two he returned the kiss, his mouth soft and sweet and yielding, his body even more so. It had felt so easy, so natural, so utterly  _ right _ to take Galen by the hand, lead him to the narrow bunk, and cover him with kisses until he was panting and moaning Orson’s name, over and over, like a prayer.

Those had been the good times— the years they’d spent at the academy on Brentaal, the years in the little apartment on Coruscant. Every day spent working and teaching and studying, every night spent cooking and talking and making love. It was a period of tranquility, of routine, of security in a future together.

And then Lyra had come along.

Orson scowls to himself, crushing a handful of bedding in his fist.  _ To survive, we must adapt. _ He will  _ not  _ be like Galen, weak and passive, accepting whatever fate deals him without complaint or resistance. He will not let the dream of a past life distract him from the present. He will fight until his last breath to be seen, to be heard, to make the years of constant toil worth it. He will stay in the  _ here  _ and the  _ now _ .

Orson huffs out an angry breath and kicks aside the covers, then rises from the bed, wincing as his knees pop. He reaches for his dressing gown, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. He’s still fairly fit for a man in his forties, but he can’t hide the crow’s feet around his eyes, the slight sag under his chin, or the slowly receding hairline. He straightens up and turns to his right, then his left, sucking in his belly, trying to ignore the way his ass is starting to droop, just a little. It bothers him that he cares so much about something so trivial, but he can’t seem to stop. 

He turns away from the mirror and slowly puts on the dressing gown, enjoying the feel of cool silk against his skin. He suddenly wants to breathe fresh air, not filtered, and on impulse unlatches the window and throws it open. A breeze wafts into the room, smelling of ocean and fragrant flowers. Orson inhales it deeply, drinking up the lush, humid air, listening to the night sounds. Waves crashing, jicaro bugs droning… and something out of place. An odd twanging sound, almost like a stringed instrument.

Orson turns his head, frowning. It isn’t unusual to hear music this late at night— some of the night shift guards like to play holo-recordings up in the observation tower to pass the time— but this music isn’t faint or fuzzy-sounding. It’s crystal clear and seems to be coming from somewhere quite close by. 

Orson cautiously sticks his head out the window and cranes his neck, but he doesn’t see anyone. The sound seems to be coming from the western side of the house. Silently, he crosses the bedroom and slowly opens the sliding door that leads out to the balcony.

Stepping out into the muggy night air, he immediately spots the source of the sound. As he suspected, it’s Adema. The security officer is lounging in a deck chair that he must have dragged onto the lawn. He’s still wearing his uniform boots and pants, but he’s taken off his cap and outer tunic. He’s holding a small queterra and idly plucking at its strings, pausing every now and then to adjust the tuning knobs.

Orson watches him, enjoying the fact that he can see without being seen. The moonlight creates dappled patterns on the young man’s skin, illuminating firmly muscled arms and large, square hands. His face is in shadow, so it’s hard to tell which direction he’s looking, but he seems to be staring into space, not really focusing on anything. He strums a few chords, humming softly to himself, and then he begins to sing.

_ It’s a fine night, a fine night _

_ For walking with you _

_ Over the hills and under the stars _

_ I long for the day when we’ll run away _

_ And leave all our troubles behind. _

Adema pauses and tilts his head slightly, as though listening to something. Then he resumes singing.

_ There’s a strange man, a strange man _

_ Looking down from above _

_ I don’t think he knows that I see him _

_ I long for the day when he’ll go away _

_ So we can all swim in his pool. _

Heat rises up in Orson’s face and he stumbles backward, nearly tripping over the lip of the door in his haste to get out of sight. The last thing he hears before slamming the door shut is the sound of Adema laughing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adema catches an intruder.

_It’s like they say_ , Mytus reflects, squirming and shifting around, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy sofa bed. _Never meet your heroes._ He’d been so excited to meet Director Krennic— the man he’d heard so much about at the academy, the man whose books he’d read for extra credit, the man who was a living legend. So it was beyond disappointing to find out that not only was Krennic way more grouchy than he expected, he was also selfish, vain, manipulative, arrogant, and didn’t care one bit about his own safety, much less anyone else’s.

Oh, people had told him what to expect. _Watch yourself,_ his CO warned. _That man’s meaner than a rabid bantha and he’ll make up any excuse to fire you, no matter how thin._ His fellow officers paled when he told them where he was going. But Mytus had convinced himself that it would be different— that _he_ would be different. He’d win Krennic over somehow, earn his trust, maybe even get to talk with him about design and architecture.

_Well, if you ever had a chance, you don’t anymore,_ Mytus tells himself grimly, rolling over on his other side. He shouldn’t have teased the director so much, shouldn’t have criticized his habits or given him such a hard time about the pool situation. He should have just kept his mouth shut, but there’s something about Krennic’s stuck-up attitude, the way he looks down his nose at everyone, that makes Mytus want to take him down a peg or three. Krennic reminds him of those landowners and property inspectors who visit the homestead every year— fat cats who don’t give a frack if you’re behind on payments because of drought or flood or sickness in the family. Profits and results are what they care about, not people, and Krennic seems to be cut from the same cloth.

Mytus scowls and punches down his pillow, trying to mold it into a shape that actually supports his head. It would be a lot easier to hate the guy if he wasn’t so damned handsome. Steely blue eyes, silver hair, strong jaw, that deep, commanding voice... _kriff_. He’s always liked his men a little bit older— they tend to have more experience, more depth, more confidence than guys his own age. Not that Mytus himself is particularly wise or mature. The stunt he pulled a few nights ago with the quetarra proves that beyond a doubt. He grins into his pillow, remembering how fast the director shot back inside once he realized he’d been seen. No, Mytus shouldn’t have teased him, but then again, Krennic shouldn’t have been spying on him in the first place.

There’s a soft beep and a crackle of static from the transmitter in the corner. Mytus eyes it for a moment, then looks away. Probably just some of those snub-nosed bats— they’re especially active at this time, eating insects and drinking nectar from flowers growing alongside the house. One of them probably flew too close to the sensor mesh.

A second beep sounds, longer and louder. Mytus groans and sits up. It’s probably nothing, but better safe than sorry. He runs a quick mental check of the night shift rotation, then keys on his comm. “Hey Presswood, you copy?”

A pause, then a click. “I copy, chief,” the guard replies.

“What’s your twenty?”

“About thirty clicks west of home base. What’s up?”

“I’m getting some chatter on the sensor grid,” Mytus says, watching the monitor closely. “South side of the house, near the entrance. Can you confirm?”

“Standby,” Presswood says. Another pause. “Nothing on my end, chief. Want me to check it out?”

“Negative,” Mytus says. There’s no point in recalling Presswood halfway across the island for something so minor. “Finish your sweep, I’ll check it out. It’s probably just bats flying around.”

“Copy that. Presswood out.”

Mytus picks his clothes up from the floor and puts them on, then shoves his feet into his boots, doing up the laces without paying much attention. He wraps his utility belt around his waist, makes sure his blaster is securely holstered against his hip, and slowly opens his bedroom door.

The hallway is dark and quiet. Mytus scans in both directions, making sure everything looks normal. Everything does, except… the director’s bedroom door. It’s standing half-open, which is odd. Normally Krennic shuts himself away from everything, whether he’s awake or asleep.

Mytus approaches the door, nudges it open a little further with his foot, and peers inside. The large four-poster bed is still made up, the covers smooth and straight. The rest of the room is empty.

He frowns. It seems unlikely that Krennic could have left his room without being heard. He does a quick check of the other locations on this floor— fresher, study, the remaining two bedrooms. All are empty.

Okay, so maybe he _had_ gone downstairs and Mytus simply didn’t hear? He’s been running short on sleep these past couple days. Maybe he nodded off earlier without realizing it?

He takes the stairs slowly, listening for any odd sounds, watching for any movements. _What the hell, Krennic? Did you decide to take a midnight stroll without telling anyone? Or are you just making a midnight snack?_

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and walks into the silent kitchen. Moonlight bounces off the shiny metal appliances and spotless countertops. Krennic isn’t in here, either. 

He’s just about to turn around and start searching the rest of the house when he hears it— a faint shuffling sound coming from outside. Someone is walking toward the kitchen door, their steps rapid and purposeful.

Swiftly Mytus steps out of sight, into the shadow cast by the bulky refrigerator. He takes out his blaster and flicks the safety off, then places his other hand next to the light switch.

The crunch and rattle of a key in the lock, and the door creaks open. A dark figure steps inside, face hidden in shadow. 

Mytus silently counts to three and then flips the switch, flooding the kitchen with light.

“Freeze,” he orders, aiming his blaster at the intruder. “Don’t move.”

“What the hell, Adema?” a familiar voice barks. “Put the bloody gun down!”

Mytus blinks. It’s not a burglar. It’s Director Krennic, dressed in a grimy pair of coveralls and blinking in the bright light. His knees are muddy and grass-stained, his hands smudged with black grease, his eyes wide with shock.

The breath whooshes out of Mytus’s lungs. “Kriffing hell,” he says, half-relieved, half-annoyed. “I almost stunned you.”

“I know,” Krennic snaps. “Why?”

“You tripped the sensor grid alarm,” Mytus says, starting to feel foolish. “I thought you were an intruder.”

“An intruder who has a key to the back door,” Krennic says dryly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t really think _you’d_ be wandering around outside at two in the morning,” Mytus says, frowning at the director’s dirty coveralls. “What the hell have you been up to?”

Krennic shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I was working on a project,” he says after a pause.

“What kind of project gets you all covered in mud?”

Another pause, longer this time. Then Krennic lets out an irritated sigh.

“If you must know,” he says, “I was fixing the pool pump.”

“You were…” It’s Mytus’s turn to be shocked. “You’re fixing it? Why?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t shut up about it until I did.” Krennic crosses to the sink and begins washing his hands. “Anyway, it’s working now. Just have to clean the filter and hook up the pipes. I’ll do that tomorrow.” He turns off the tap and dries his hands vigorously with a dish towel. “But right now, I’m going to bed.” He stalks past Mytus, scowling. “I hope you’re satisfied, lieutenant.”

He disappears around the corner, and after a moment Mytus hears him stomping upstairs.

“Thank you, sir,” he calls.

There’s no response except the slam of a door, but that doesn’t stop Mytus from breaking into a grin. 

Maybe his hero isn’t such a disappointment, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another prank...only this one doesn't go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heads up that this chapter contains a scene of someone almost drowning. Everything turns out okay, but just wanted to warn people in case that's something they'd rather skip. FYI it does not happen until nearly the end of the chapter, and there's some plot-related stuff that happens before that.
> 
> If you need to skip, there's a brief summary in the end notes <3

As expected, the guards are thrilled with the addition of the pool. Mytus knew they would be, but it’s still satisfying to know that  _ he  _ made it happen, and even more satisfying to know the reason why.

At least, he’s pretty sure he knows the reason why. Krennic doesn’t seem like someone who does nice things very often— ever, really— and he certainly doesn’t do them for people he doesn’t like. Somehow or other, Mytus has persuaded him to change his mind, and that.. well,  _ that  _ is interesting.

He knows Krennic is attracted to him. He’s known it from the first second they looked at each other— those sharp blue eyes  _ raked _ over his body, lingering a little too long in certain places. But all of his flirting and innuendo has convinced Mytus that it isn’t real. You didn’t reach such a high position of power unless you knew how to manipulate people. Krennic’s behavior is just a way to get Mytus to do what he wants. It’s second nature to people like him.

Now, though, Mytus isn’t so sure. He fully expected the director to say something like “you owe me one” after fixing the pool. But he hadn’t. In fact, he’d seemed almost  _ angry _ , as if Mytus had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. That doesn’t match up at all with his earlier impressions.  _ That  _ Krennic would have milked the situation for all it was worth— requesting favors, leering at the half-naked guards while they swam, that kind of thing.

But that’s the other strange part about this. Even after putting in all that work, Krennic seems to want nothing to do with the pool or its occupants. He stays inside the air-conditioned house, holed up in his office, working late into the night, only coming down when Ronnie reminds him to eat. Mytus considers asking him about it, but he knows Krennic will probably just sidestep the question. So he says nothing, just keeps one eye on the house whenever he’s swimming, always half-expecting to see the director watching from one of the windows.

Days go by. The guards’ initial obsession with the pool subsides— now only a few of them use it regularly, Mytus among them. He’s starting to get into a routine, settling in, creating his own space. As predicted, Krennic never uses the sitting room, so he begins treating it as more than just a command center. He hooks up his holo-disc player so he can play his albums, and connects his comlink with the long-range transceiver so he can make calls home.

It’s harvest season on Jerijador right now, so his parents are too busy to talk, but Adyn and Sydni are usually around. Adyn always wants to know when Mytus is coming home, and nothing Mytus says can make his brother understand that it will be months before he gets enough shore leave to visit. He tries to get him focused on something else— what’s growing in the fields, if Moona’s had her babies yet— but Adyn won’t be distracted. “Tomorrow,” he keeps insisting. “You’re coming back tomorrow.”

Sydni just sounds tired. It’s her job to watch Adyn while their parents work the farm, and it breaks Mytus’s heart to hear the strain in her voice, to know he can’t be there to help. What were his folks thinking, giving that responsibility to someone so young?  _ You did it,  _ he reminds himself.  _ You did it for years.  _ But Sydni isn’t him, and Adyn is bigger now, and stronger. Strong enough to hurt Sydni if he wants to. Mytus tries not to think about it too much. He does what he can for his sister, gives her advice about how to handle Adyn’s moods, how to calm him down if he gets out of control. But the fear is always there, the knowledge that if something happens, he won’t be there to stop it.

***

Mytus finishes his rounds later than usual tonight— one of the sentry droids malfunctioned and started walking out to sea, which meant getting the skiff out, tracking it for several kilometers over choppy waves, then using a makeshift pulley to haul it up. Stupid robot.

Presswood tried to make light of it, but Mytus wasn’t in the mood for wisecracks. “If you’d been doing your job instead of jacking off, it wouldn’t have gotten out here at all,” he snapped. “It’s kriff like this that gets people kicked out of basic training. Are you in basic training, Presswood?”

“No, sir.”

“Then shut up.”

It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time Mytus gets back to the house. His arms and shoulders ache from hauling that damn droid up nearly a kilometer, and he’s looking forward to relaxing in the pool. Maybe he’ll help himself to that brandy gathering dust in the liquor cabinet— he deserves a drink after all that nonsense.

He suggests the idea to Presswood, but the guard’s still sore about Mytus chewing him out earlier, because he says he’d rather go back to the barracks. He’ll probably bitch about Mytus once he gets there, but that can’t be helped. Nobody likes the guy in charge, even when he’s right.

Mytus goes inside the house and does a quick sweep. Krennic’s in his study as usual, although it looks more like he’s sleeping at his desk instead of working. After checking in with the night shift, Mytus changes into his swim trunks and pours a generous portion of brandy into a shot glass. He takes it out on the patio with him, a little relieved that nobody else is out here. He needs some time alone.

The water is cool and refreshing, and Mytus just floats on his back for a while, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. Then he makes himself do a few laps, because he knows that if he doesn’t, he’ll be even more sore in the morning. He swims back and forth, practicing his breathing— he’s always been a strong swimmer, even as a kid. His dad taught all of them how, just like he taught them to shoot a gun, set traps, start a fire. Some might call it survival training, but to Mytus, it was just something else he had to learn, same as milking a bantha, splitting wood, or sewing up a rip in someone’s trousers.

He finishes a fourth lap, then swims over to the pool’s edge to take a sip of brandy. The liquid burns down his throat, but it’s a good kind of burn, woody and warm, sending heat all the way down to his toes.

Faintly, he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. “Hey, Presswood,” he says, grinning. “You done sulking already?”

He turns around and his stomach clenches. “Director,” he says, automatically standing up. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else. Did I wake you?”

Krennic is standing by the edge of the pool, dressed in that same silk robe he was wearing the night of the quetarra prank. His arms are folded as he gazes down at Mytus, as if he’s protecting himself from something.

“No,” he says. “I was already awake.”

“Oh.” An awkward pause. Mytus suddenly feels self-conscious and slowly sinks back down into the water. He shouldn’t care, really— it’s not like he’s naked or anything, but something about the director’s intense stare makes him feel like he is.

“Did you need something?” he asks. It’s the only reason he can think of for Krennic to be out here so late at night.

“Not particularly.”

“Okay.” Mytus resists the urge to roll his eyes. Clearly Krennic wants something or he wouldn’t be here, but he’s deciding to be coy about it, for whatever reason. Mytus decides to act as though he isn’t there, and turns around to take another sip of brandy.

“What’s wrong with your brother?” Krennic asks abruptly.

Mytus’s stomach tightens again. “What?”

“I’ve heard you on the comm these past few nights,” Krennic says, still in that same brusque tone. “The way you talk about him to your sister, it sounds like he’s a grown man. But you speak to him like he’s a small child.”

Mytus feels a surge of anger. How dare this man listen in on his private conversations? “You know, there’s such a thing as minding your own business,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.

“I’ve found that never serves me well.”

“Is that right?” Mytus says, his anger growing.  _ Manipulative little bastard. _ “Tell me something, Director. Have you ever done anything because it was the right thing to do, and not just because it serves you well?”

“Doesn’t fixing the pool count?”

“No.” Mytus clenches his fists under the water. “You didn’t do that out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Then why did I do it?”

“Because you want something from me.”

Krennic raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”

A smirk appears on the director’s face. “Well, if you haven’t figured it out by now, lieutenant, you never will.” He turns to go back inside.

“Wait.” An idea is coming into Mytys’s head. If he can get Krennic close enough to the edge… “Wait,” he repeats, moving to the other side of the pool. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just… I get a little defensive about my brother, that’s all.”

Krennic pauses, then turns back. “That’s all right,” he says, stepping a bit closer. “I didn’t mean to offend. I was simply curious.”

“It’s okay.” Mytus holds out his hand. “Help me out of here, and we can go inside and talk about it.”

Apparently the director is more gullible than he looks, because he reaches down and grasps his hand. And then Mytus pulls him into the water with a gigantic splash.

Mytus starts laughing, but the laughter quickly dies down when Krennic doesn’t surface. He waits for a second or two, watching him flail in the water, a trickle of uneasiness running through him. Is Krennic faking? It seems like something he’d do, just to screw with him.

Another second passes. Something’s definitely wrong. Mytus knows the difference between someone struggling to stay afloat and someone actually drowning. Krennic’s body is vertical, his arms out at his sides, and he’s terribly still, his hair floating over his eyes. 

“Director,” he says loudly, swimming closer. “Not funny, sir. Cut it out.”

No response.

Mytus swears and looks around for something he can use as a flotation device— one of those inflatable rafts, a foam board, anything. He sees nothing, and the lifesaver is all the way on the other side of the pool, no time to get it. His comm is in the house— kriff, why did he leave it in the _house_ —

“Help,” he shouts, hoping against hope that one of the night guards is nearby. “Code red at the pool. Code red!”

No response.

He’s going to have to pull Krennic out with his bare hands. All his training is screaming at him not to— drowning people are frantic, they pull their rescuers down with them— but there’s no time, he can’t wait— 

He swims behind Krennic and wraps one arm around the man’s chest, then starts swimming back towards the edge of the pool. As he expects, Krennic suddenly starts thrashing, clutching Mytus’s arm in a death grip, kicking out and convulsing as he struggles to breathe. The back of his head smashes into Mytus’s nose, making his eyes water. He grits his teeth and keeps going, ignoring the pain, every atom in his body focused on one thing—  _ get to the edge, get to the edge. _

“Here,” he yells when his hand touches the duracrete, more to himself than Krennic. “Here we go!” He grabs the edge of the pool with his free hand and heaves himself up, Krennic still thrashing. 

And then someone else is here— two people, from the sound of it— they’re yelling, reaching out, grabbing both of them, hauling them out of the water, onto wonderful solid ground. Mytus collapses face first on the muddy grass, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. Krennic is next to him, limp and unresponsive.

One of the guards, a tall skinny guy with a mustache—  _ Wright _ , Mytus thinks dimly,  _ his name is Wright _ — leans his head close to Krennic’s mouth.

“He’s breathing but just barely,” he says, and rolls the director onto his side. “Come on, sir. Cough it up, get it out.”

Krennic jerks, then starts spitting up water, making horrible retching sounds. Wright holds his head up and to the side, encouraging him to keep coughing.

“Oh God,” Mytus says, getting to his knees and crawling forward. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry—”

“Stay back, chief,” the other guard says. “Give him some air.”

Mytus ignores him and puts his hand on Krennic’s shoulder— it seems important, somehow, that he holds onto him. The director keeps retching, pool water and vomit forming a puddle next to his head. Finally Krennic lets out a strangled groan and rolls onto his back, eyes glassy and still. 

“Sir,” Mytus says urgently, shaking him a little. “Are you okay? Talk to me,  _ please _ .”

Krennic’s mouth opens and he seems to be forming words, but his voice is too hoarse for Mytus to hear. 

Mytus leans closer. “What, sir? What is it?”

“You… imbecile,” Krennic croaks. He reaches up and makes a feeble attempt to slap him in the face. “I can’t swim!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for anyone who needed to skip this chapter, here's basically what happens: Mytus attempts to prank Krennic by pulling him into the pool with him, but doesn't realize that Krennic can't swim. Once he realizes, Mytus calls for help and gets him out with assistance from two nearby guards. The director coughs up a bucketful of water, and then in true Krennic form, calls Mytus an imbecile and attempts to smack him in the face. He's super weak from almost drowning, so he doesn't succeed :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orson's tired of playing games.

Orson knows he should forgive Adema for his idiocy, but he’s still smarting from the humiliation. Not only did he have to suffer the indignity of being carried up to the house by two of his guards, he then had to endure a visit from the medic, who promptly clamped an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, wrapped him up in blankets, and asked him all sorts of personally invasive questions. Under normal circumstances Orson would have thrown her out— literally, if possible— but his entire body felt like gelatin and he couldn’t seem to stop coughing. So he let her poke and prod and take his temperature, trying to ignore Adema hovering in the background like an anxious mother hen.

After the medic leaves, Adema insists on staying with him for the rest of tonight, no doubt out of guilt. Orson starts to object, but the pained look on the young man’s face changes his mind. If he wants to stay, let him stay. If nothing else, he can provide company and fetch things. And to be honest, Orson feels a bit guilty himself. He’s seen the swelling and bruising around Adema’s nose, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he probably hit the security chief in the face at some point during the rescue. He can’t remember much, only bits and pieces— the horrible sinking sensation, the foul taste of chlorine and vomit in his mouth, Adema leaning over him looking absolutely stricken.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

Orson jumps and turns around. Adema is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, a stern expression on his face.

“I just need to get a few files transferred to my datapad,” Orson says.

“The doc said—”

“I know what she said,” Orson snaps. “This will just take a minute.”

He turns back to the computer, but before he can do anything else Adema crosses the room and takes the datapad out of his hands.

“You  _ dare— _ ” Orson snarls, reaching for it, but the security chief holds it out of his reach.

“Get back in bed, sir,” he says quietly. “Please.”

Rage sparks up in Orson’s chest. “You _still_ think you can give me orders after that stunt you pulled? I ought to fire you right here and now.”

He expects Adema to roll his eyes, offer a retort, or just look at him with that infuriatingly calm stubbornness. Instead, the lieutenant’s shoulders slump.

“So fire me,” he says. There’s no challenge in his tone, only weariness.

Orson feels his own anger fading, replaced by surprise and a bit of curiosity. It’s not like Adema to simply give in. What’s changed?

. “I…” he begins, then stops. What can he say? That he doesn’t mean it? Because he does. He  _ does  _ want to fire this insolent little worm. Doesn’t he?

“I thought you wanted this job,” he says at last. 

“I do,” Adema says. His eyes are fixed on a point somewhere over Orson’s shoulder, turning the datapad over and over in his hands. “But I don’t deserve it. Not after what I did to you.”

He’s right, Orson thinks dimly. He’s absolutely right. He doesn’t deserve to be in charge of someone so important.

“It was an accident,” he hears himself say. “You couldn’t have known. I didn’t want anyone to know.” He pauses, wondering how to phrase the next part so it doesn’t sound like he’s trying too hard. “Besides, if you left that would mean I’d have to find another security chief, which means more work for me. So you might as well stay.”

Adema slowly raises his head, looking cautiously hopeful. “You want me to stay?”

“I didn’t say that. I said you might as  _ well  _ stay.”

The young man tilts his head, a ghost of his old grin crossing his face. “You want me to stay,” he repeats, but this time it’s a statement instead of a question. “You’d miss me if I left.”

Orson gives him the most withering look he can muster. “Don’t flatter yourself. You annoy me less than other people. That’s all.”

“Director,” Adema says softly, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The warm glow of lamplight makes his features look soft and smooth, and suddenly all Orson wants is to reach out and touch him. He controls the impulse, clenching his fist so hard it hurts.

Instead, he nods down at the datapad in Adema’s hands. “I need that back.”

The lieutenant shakes his head. “No work stuff. Get back in bed and rest.”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” Orson snaps.

“Then stop acting like one and get in bed.”

“Or what?”

Adema raises his eyebrows. “Or I’ll pick you up and carry you.”

A little thrill goes through Orson’s stomach. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

“I might.” Adema tilts his head again, looking both amused and sad. “You  _ really  _ don’t like people taking care of you, do you?”

An image of Galen’s worried face, gentle hands cool on his fevered forehead, flits across Orson’s mind.

“I’ve found that never serves me well,” he says.

“Maybe you need to trust people more.” Adema sets the datapad down on the desk and moves closer. Orson’s stomach tightens again, but he does his best to keep his face impassive.

“Trust you?” he says, rather dryly. “The man who just tried to drown me?”

“You just said it was an accident,” Adema protests, but he is smiling. “Will you  _ please  _ go to bed?”

Orson opens his mouth to retort, and then he suddenly realizes that he’s tired. Tired of waiting, tired of guessing, tired of playing games. He’s tired of all of it.

He reaches out and grasps Adema’s hand. “Fine,” he says. “But only if you come with me.”

For a long, drawn-out moment Adema stares down at their interlocked fingers. Then he looks up at Orson’s face, a blush rising in his cheeks.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” he asks, almost shyly.

Orson gives his hand a little tug. “Come and find out,” he murmurs.

Adema’s blush deepens, and then he says the most beautiful thing Orson’s ever heard.

“Okay.”


End file.
